


girl afraid

by orphan_account



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Attempted Sexual Assault, Character Death, Coming Out, F/F, F/M, Female Friendship, Hiding a Body, Lesbian Character, Mild Sexual Content, Murder, balaga is a gay ally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 08:45:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13337598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Unspeakable act begets unspeakable act, and Natasha finds herself at a loss. After all, what's a girl to do in the middle of the night with a dead body on her bedroom rug?





	girl afraid

Natasha had spent the entire night teetering between exhilaration and fear. The two emotions were so similar and yet so contrasted, keeping her on edge and out of breath in the most titillating way. She could label every moment in her mind as one or the other. Entering the room in her dress, with everyone’s eyes on her, had made her exhilarated; the pressure of Anatole’s hands as they danced made her frightened. The kiss, that wonderful and dreaded kiss, had been the perfect mix of both. She had expected the feeling to persist. But now, with their lips locked together and Anatole looming over her like a specter of passion, all exhilaration left. She was more frightened than she had ever been in her life.

Anatole pulled away from Natasha with a breathy gasp, a strand of saliva hanging from his slightly parted lips. She gulped hard, trying to remember how she had even gotten here in the first place. The ball and the kiss had made her mind slip, giddy like a child. Anatole had planted the seed of it with a whisper into her ear as they danced, quiet so that no one but her could hear. “Will your godmother be home tonight?” It was an ordinary question, but the indecent tone of his voice made Natasha’s knees knock, shaking her head silently. “What about that other girl from the opera, your...sister?”

“Cousin,” she lightly corrected him, feeling light headed. “They are visiting with Pierre and will be gone until morning.” He grinned then, and Natasha thought she might faint.

“How perfect.”

Contrary to what many people seemed to believe, Natasha was not stupid. Young, yes, naive, perhaps, but not stupid. She had an idea of what Anatole meant when he whispered during the second waltz that he would love her like she had not been loved before. She did not know the _details_ of what it meant, certainly, but in her odd intoxication she nodded vigorously, giving a breathy sigh. At the time it seemed like the most wonderful thing to her, and she buzzed with excitement the rest of the night in her anticipation. The ball ended, and Anatole walked her outside arm in arm. Once the crowd dissipated, he kissed her once more, holding her in his arms and tilting his head. Natasha thought she felt his tongue slip into her mouth. Then he whistled to hail a carriage, and they were off without a word. She was bewitched.

But now that _it_ was really happening, now that her back was against the mattress of her godmother’s guest bedroom in just her corset and pantalettes, now that Anatole was in his drawers and she could _see_ so much of him, was she frightened. When he had kissed her before, it felt fantastic, like a bolt of lightning down her spine, but now his lips against hers felt suffocating and intrusive. She knew she was making a dire mistake: it was only now that everything was coming to pass, that she was so exposed, did she realize this. The familiar memory of Andrey, so far away from her, crept up and made her face burn with shame. _What on earth am I doing?_ A pit was beginning to form in her stomach, and she felt nauseous. _I can’t!_ “Anatole,” She choked out, shivering as she felt him kiss her neck. He pulled away with a wet sound and looked at her. She averted her eyes from the expanse of his pale skin she could see before her and spoke in a stilted tone “Anatole, I can’t---I am betrothed---”

“Don’t speak of that now,” He cooed, running his hands through her hair and dismantling her bun. “Don’t tell me that, when you know how I am so terribly in love with you.”

Hearing this sent another jolt of fear through Natasha. Yes, wasn’t he in love with her? And she with him? How else could any of this had happened? And if they were in love, why did this feel so unpleasant? She closed her eyes, and her head hurt. “Anatole, please, I--”

“Shh.” He put a finger to his lips before running it ever so slowly down her neck to the top of her corset.  “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on, Natalie. I want to show you that. I want to see every part of you... _feel_ every part of you.” Natasha gulped. She did not know what to say. She was terrified. He slowly and deliberately lifted her back and reached around to loosen her stays, before tugging down the front of her corset with a wicked grin and exposing her breasts.

Natasha had been frozen in her fear, hypnotized by Anatole’s words. But this motion snapped her out of her state, and she scrambled to hide herself as he laughed. “It is alright, Natasha. You have no need to be embarrassed. I love you madly.”

She blinked up at him, face bright red, wishing he would stop saying that. “It is improper, I am betrothed, I--” She repeated her argument uselessly, voice wavering, but he cut her off with a powerful kiss, pawing at one breast with a free hand. Her eyes widened and she backed away from him, flinching as she hit her back against the headboard of the bed. “Anatole!” She cried, hoping she didn’t reveal how close to the edge of tears she was. Her heart was beating fast in an adrenaline panic. She tucked her knees up to her chest as far as they could go and scanned her surroundings for something, _anything_ that could possibly help her. She spotted an empty candelabra on a nearby nightstand and quickly snatched it up, holding it out in front of her in a threat. She was visibly shaking in terror, a few tears beginning to fall from her eyes. Anatole continued to stare at her: but something different came over his face, as though he were annoyed. He moved towards her once again, placing a hand on the top button of her pantalettes.

“Don’t tease me like that, Natalie,” he spoke in a low tone, undoing the button. “When you know how desperately I want y--” And then, shutting her eyes tight, Natasha struck him with the candelabra.

It wasn’t supposed to happen the way it did. Natasha had meant simply to distract him, to catch him off guard, maybe even to knock him off of her so that she could get away. This she succeeded in. Anatole stopped talking, cut off as quickly as a candle is blown out, and fell onto the rug beside the bed with a horrifying sound. He looked utterly and completely stunned. Natasha lowered the candelabra, staring hesitantly at him. She expected him to get back up at any moment, and begged her legs to start moving and get her away, but she was as frozen as he was. Fear spiked in her once again as she saw a steady flow of blood not only from Anatole’s right ear where she had hit him, but pooling around his cheek where he had fallen on the rug. She glanced down at the candelabra with a strangled look on her face, and seeing the blood upon the metal threw it down with a clattering noise. Anatole turned his head towards her in what looked like an agonizing motion, blood streaked across the left side of his face. He made no sound, did not scream or cry, and that was the most terrifying of all. “I’m so sorry, Anatole, I didn’t mean it!” Natasha cried, beginning to sob. Anatole tried to open his mouth to speak, but all that emerged was an odd gurgling sound and a gush of blood that fell from his lips. Bile rose rapidly in Natasha’s throat, and she fought hard not to vomit.

Natasha didn’t know for certain how much time passed until Anatole stopped writhing silently on her godmother’s rug, until he closed his eyes and fell deathly still. It felt like an eternity. She did not go to him, partially out of not knowing what to do and partially out of fear of what he might do to her if she got too close. She instead perched on the side of the bed, her knees still up, shivering and rocking back and forth. She did not want to look at him, but at the same time found herself unable to look away. She stopped crying, at one point, and stared on with dry and puffy eyes. When his movement stopped, and she thought that he had died (though she hated to even _think_ of it like that) she slowly scooted off of the bed and walked around the perimeter of the rug, bending down by him. She put a hesitant hand to his forehead, but pulled it away almost immediately as she felt the unnatural coldness of his skin. He had once been such a magnificent specimen, he had held his head up eye, and his eyes had shined with an unparalleled confidence. Now, in death, crumpled up in only his drawers, he seemed small and pitiful, and _this_ is what made Natasha begin to cry again.

She sat on the very edge of the rug, cross-legged like a child, and sobbed. The sound of her crying echoed in the high-ceilinged guest room, and the sound was eerie and foreign to her. She wept for the fact that her life was over now, that Marya and Sonya would return and see him and everything would go to hell. She tried to think of what she might tell them and could come up with nothing. She wept for the fact that she had taken a human life, a reality that now wormed deep inside of her, the fact that she had committed an irredeemable act. But then she looked at Anatole’s body, the blood beginning to pool at his back and his fingers stiff and splayed, and she cried harder because she knew she was being selfish. She really had loved Anatole, loved him terribly, madly, desperately, the way he had loved her. Even so, she could not shake the feeling that he had tried to hurt her (though _how_ he would have hurt her she did not know, and did not want to). Something about him was different in that degree of intimacy, something frightening and volatile. And yet she really had loved him. She was distraught, she was confused, and Anatole was dead, and so she cried.

She stood after a long while, sniffling, and rubbed her eyes dry in an act of conclusion. There was no more time for her to cry; the sun would come up in a few hour’s time, and she only had until then to try and sort out the disaster she had found herself in. But still she was at a loss. Natasha knew that to try and save herself was a feat beyond her, that she would need help from someone, but from who? From Marya, or Sonya? She shut her eyes tight and shook her head in a visceral no. She loved the two of them far too much. She wanted to believe that they would understand, that they would help her, and, above all, they would still love her...but the risk if they didn’t was far too much for her to take. Who else, then? Hélène? Pierre? That was a no as well, for they were certainly closer to Anatole than they were to her, and would be stricken by grief...as well as anger. So who was left? Was there a soul left in her small Moscow circle who could assist her? She wished with all her heart that Andrey would return. She was frightened.  But then, out of her subconscious, ideas associated with others and she came out with a rather bizarre answer: _What about Princess Mary?_

Natasha did not really want to pin her livelihood on Princess Mary, awkward and plain Mary who was so bizarre in her mannerisms. They had met for the first time only the day before: what reason would she have to help Natasha, much less to help her with something like this? And yet at the same time she seemed a perfect candidate. She was not a complete stranger, but at the same time nowhere near a close friend; Natasha could take it if she went the rest of her life without ever seeing Mary again. Not to mention she could not see the woman going to any sort of law enforcement; she could not even speak up to her own father. So Mary it was, then. With this fleeting thought, Natasha made up her mind in her perhaps uninformed pursuit. Taking only a few moments to quickly dress in a nightgown and put a pair of slippers on, she headed out onto the streets and began walking at a determined pace to the Bolkonsky home. She didn’t dare take a troika or any sort of transportation; she was certain that if anyone saw her they would know she had done something terrible. As she walked, she shivered, and wished she had thought to grab a coat.

She made it to the Bolkonsky home in less time than she had thought, slightly surprised at how efficiently her legs had carried her. She stared upwards at the imposing building before her, and with a growing dread realized she did not know how on earth she would even find Mary. She did not want to knock on the door for fear that Prince Bolkonsky would answer (though it seemed unlikely). She did not know of any other entrance, and even if she did, she did not have a key. She stared at the house for a moment longer, feeling hopeless...until she saw a flickering light in one of the upper windows. Cocking her head to one side and stepping closer, she could see the vague shadow of a feminine figure, pacing back and forth. _That’s her!_ Natasha walked up closer to the front of the house. Quickly looking around, she spotted a small rock on the ground beside her. With a step back, she aimed carefully and threw the rock upwards. It bounced against the glass with a noticeable sound, but did not seem to catch Mary’s attention. Frowning, Natasha quickly scanned for another rock and threw it with slightly more force. _This_ worked: Mary stopped in her tracks and, after a moment, walked to the window and pushed it open, staring at where Natasha stood with a bewildered look. They stared at one another for a moment; Natasha did not know what to say. Then Mary quickly shut the window again and appeared to leave the room. A few short moments later, the front door opened, the sudden sound making Natasha flinch, and Mary stood before her with a concerned look.

Something about seeing Mary, out in the cold in only her nightgown and coat and looking so worried, the suddenness with which she had responded to Natasha’s appearance, made her burst into tears once more. She wept without control, and this seemed to startle Mary, though she did not come closer. She stood at a distance, seeming conflicted, but spoke aloud. “Oh, Natalie, what has happened?”

“It is Prince Anatole,” Natasha began, her voice cracking, “I danced with him--at the costume tournament, he kissed me, and he told me he loved me but he--he tried to--” she faltered, sniffling a little as she tried to put into words what exactly he had tried to do. “He tried to--to have me! And now I’ve done something terrible, and oh, Mary, I’m so frightened…!” She ran to Mary and threw her arms around the other woman, desperate for human affection. Mary flinched, seemingly unfamiliar to such affection, but slowly and awkwardly put her arms around Natasha.

“I am sure all will be fine, Natasha. Why don’t you find your godmother or--”

“No!” Natasha cried, the unintended harshness of it jolting Mary. “She will surely hate me--I cannot--” and then she was in hysterics, unable to speak forward, and Mary frowned.

“Let us return to where you are staying. And take my coat, you’re shivering.”

They walked back arm in arm, though they did not speak to one another. Natasha was exhausted from her outburst, and more than a little embarrassed, so she leaned against Mary’s shoulder as they walked. Mary did not seem to mind. Natasha found that, during the walk, she found Mary’s silent and somewhat strangled disposition not off putting, as she had when they had met for tea, but instead oddly welcoming. They came to Marya’s house and Natasha hesitantly pulled the door open, beckoning for Mary to enter. She led the other woman upstairs, still not speaking. It felt intimate, like inviting a friend to sleep over and showing them where everything is so they can settle in as though they lived there themselves. She paused as she approached the room where she slept, her heartbeat quickening even in expectation of what she knew was behind the door. She turned to Mary and grimaced. “Please promise me you won’t scream.” Mary’s eyes seemed to widen slightly at this, but she slowly nodded in response. Natasha took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

Mary did not scream, as she promised, but instead promptly vomited onto the rug without warning. The unexpectedness of the action scared Natasha. Mary put a hand to her mouth, her cheeks glowing slightly with embarrassment. “I am sorry.” There was a timidness to her voice that had not been present before. Neither of them spoke after that, instead staring down at what had become of Anatole Kuragin. In the beginning it seemed as though he were merely sleeping, if you ignored the blood streaking his face and staining the rug he lay on. Now he was beginning to fall apart; a purple bruise was making its way up his ribcage, violent and disfiguring, and his jaw hung slightly open at an unnatural angle. His joints seemed awkward and stiff, and there was simply a feeling of death about his whole person. Natasha was filled with the sudden and growing fear that she had made a terrible decision, that Mary would surely run away and go to the police, and then everything would be over. Surely Mary did look horrified, the strongest expression of emotion Natasha had seen from her since they had met. Just as the tension grew too much for Natasha to bare, just as she began to feel tears prick her eyes once more, Mary slowly walked over to where Anatole lay and picked him up, easily and gently as though he were a lady who had fainted. “Well, then,” Mary announced, though in an oddly measured out tone as if she were trying to to panic. “Let’s take him to the bath and see if we cannot make him look presentable.”

Natasha blinked once, a little startled by what had happened. She nodded, and Mary began to exit with Anatole in her arms, but stopped in her tracks and turned around. “Would you mind gathering his clothing?” Mary’s face did not change, but Natasha blushed slightly, realizing what implication Anatole’s state of undress and her own dishevelment must have. She quickly went to where Anatole had discarded his clothes in his fit of passion and followed Mary out of the door. She was impressed by Mary’s strength in carrying Anatole, and mentioned this to her with an awe she could not keep out of her tone.

“You must be very strong, to carry him so.”

Mary seemed to laugh at this, though it was a stiff sound that was likely uncommon to her. “My father is very old and cannot go up stairs like he used to, so I must carry him down in the morning and back up again at night each day. I have had plenty practice. Besides, this one is lighter than you might think.” She looked down at Anatole with an odd look before returning her gaze to Natasha. “He’s rather effeminate, isn’t he? Is that your taste?” Natasha giggled at this, putting a hand over her mouth politely, and Mary smiled. It was the first time she had ever seen the woman smile; but Natasha thought that she looked very lovely when she did, and that she ought to do it much more often.

After being guided by Natasha to the bath, Mary carefully laid Anatole down against the tub on the floor so that his head tilted back into it. “Does your godmother have a washbasin in her room?” Mary asked, and Natasha nodded. Mary seemed pleased by this. “Go and fetch the water from it, please.” Natasha obliged, returning shortly with a pitcher of water. Mary quickly got to work pouring the water over Anatole’s hair and face, using a towel to scrub the blood off of him. Natasha watched cross-legged on the tiled floor, enraptured by the process. She was struck by how gentle Mary was with him, and it warmed her heart in a bizarre way. She caught herself forgetting, at times, that he was dead; she had worried that the cold water would upset him, but then caught sight of the terrible bruising once again which banished such a thought. He could not be upset anymore, not by anything. Mary made quick work of washing him up, and lifted his head up as if to admire her handiwork. Natasha realized that she must wash her father’s face and hair this way. “Will you help me dress him now?” She asked, in an uncharacteristically (or perhaps simply unheard before) soft tone of voice. Natasha flinched as though awakening from a deep sleep, and then moved towards her to assist.

“If you could, ah, put on his inexpressibles, I will handle his shirt and coats.” Mary spoke quickly, reaching into the pile of clothing to fish around for the mentioned items. Natasha blushed a little but obliged, reaching as well. Their hands clashed a bit awkwardly but they soon made quick work of the task. They did not speak much, but Mary’s presence was quickly growing on Natasha, and she found herself eternally thankful that she was not doing this by herself. “And there he should be!” Mary announced when they were done. “Let’s take a look. Can you grab his left side so we can hold him up?” Natasha nodded quickly, and holding Anatole between them they both stood up to face the mirror and see what they had done. Both frowned at the sight of him. He was dressed, sure, and the blood from his face was gone, but he was still profoundly corpse-like in his presence. The hanging of his jaw, the stiffness of his extremities all pointed to the end of life still (though his clothing covered the dreadful bruising) and no amount of dressing or washing could amend those things. They both looked at him for a moment, at a loss.

“If we open his eyes, then maybe…?” Natasha offered, and Mary nodded, reaching to lift one of Anatole’s eyelids. This did not help: his pupils had dilated, giving an unnatural look. Natasha sighed in defeat, but Mary did not seem ready to give up quite yet.

“Hold on, I have another idea,” she reassured Natasha, picking Anatole up once more.

They carried him back to the guest room, and Mary laid Anatole on the rug once more. Then, without explaining herself, she walked over to the writing desk, took the inkpot and poured about half of its contents onto the rug. Natasha opened her mouth to question Mary’s actions, but she began explaining herself, as if reading Natasha’s mind. “We can wrap him up in the rug and take him out of the house that way. Then perhaps we take a troika -- I know a driver who will not ask too many questions -- and take him to the bank of the Volga, where we can...well…” She trailed off, but Natasha knew what she was implying, and nodded slowly. “You can tell your godmother that you spilled some ink on the rug, and had it removed.”

Natasha was impressed by how thoroughly Mary had thought her plan out. “That’s very smart of you, Mary!” she mused, and the other woman seemed to blush slightly. “Thank you.” Then she leaned down and, slightly adjusting Anatole, began rolling up the rug. Natasha pushed the bed slightly further against the wall to make Mary’s job easier. Then, with a little bit of difficulty, Mary and Natasha lifted the now rolled rug with Anatole inside and held it between the two of them. It worked quite well.

The two women hauled Anatole down the stairs and out of the door, stumbling a little. Then they went out into the street. It was a little busier now than when Natasha had first come to find Mary: people were returning home from nights out. They regarded the two with odd looks as they lugged the cumbersome roll of fabric around, and Natasha began to grow paranoid. _(oh they know they know they know they all know!!! They all can see that I am a murderer!!!_ ) “Mary, I’m frightened,” she whispered to her companion, “They are all looking at us.”

“All is well,” Mary murmured in a reassuring tone. “We are two women carrying a large rug between us in the middle of the night. That is what they find strange. No one knows.” Even the sound of Mary speaking eased Natasha’s nerves. Mary led the way to a somewhat dingy-looking club, the kind of place that her mother and father would not ever want her to enter. “I am certain he will be here. Can you wait with him?” Mary asked, and Natasha nodded, though giggling a little at the thought of such an uptight and fussy woman as Mary entering such a place as that. Mary opened the door, a few muffled notes of music coming from inside, and disappeared into the club.

Without Mary by her side, Natasha felt her confidence diminishing. She hugged the rug close to her, grimacing as she felt the outline of Anatole’s corpse within. She tried to stay as casual as she could, but the reality of what she was doing was quickly setting in. She looked around furiously, tensing up anytime someone passed by where she stood uncomfortably leaning against the wall. Looking up, she saw, with a clench of her chest, that one of Anatole’s hands was just visible from the top of the rug, the fingers hanging out like the spanning branches of a tree. Getting on her tiptoes, she tried to push the arm back down to his side, still looking to make sure no one could see. It was more difficult than she thought. Frowning, she pushed with more force, and the arm gave with a grotesque sound as it disappeared into the rug. Natasha quickly landed on the soles of her feet again, sickened with herself, and began to cry again. She had ruined Anatole’s life, because she had been selfish. In a self-ware way she knew that that was wrong, but she could not help thinking it. _Oh, God, why do You let people hurt one another? Why did You let me kill Anatole?_ _Would all be well if I had just let him do what he wanted to me?_  She looked up at the sky as if in prayer. As she did this, however, she heard the door of the club open once again, and she quickly rubbed her eyes dry as Mary returned with a scruffy looking man in tow.

“Natasha, this is Balaga,” Mary said, speaking to the man as she gestured to Natasha. “Balaga, Countess Natalya Rostova.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Countess,” the man (Balaga, apparently) said, grabbing her hand and shaking it vigorously. Natasha returned the gesture a bit more hesitantly. Once Balaga released her hand (he had a surprisingly strong grip), he turned to look at the rolled up rug which Natasha still clutched tightly. “So you ladies are taking this to the Volga?” His tone seemed slightly incredulous, and a wave of paranoia overcame Natasha once more.

“Mhm,” Mary answered, “Do you think it will fit in the troika?”

Balaga frowned a bit, sizing up the rug. “You’ll have to hold it with you. Is that alright?” Mary nodded, and Balaga grinned.

“Then let’s get out of here!”

Balaga led the two women around the back of the club, where a decent-looking if well worn troika sat, the horses attached to it looking impatient. As Balaga fed a small chuck of cut sugar to each one, he seemed interested in their request: “Kind of an odd hour for redecorating, eh?” he joked, and Natasha flinched. Mary, in an odd shift of character, laughed heartily. “I suppose so.”

“And you’re going to dump it into the Volga? Is that allowed?”

And with this Natasha realized, with a growing horror, that Mary was a terrible liar. Her face visibly clenched before answering Balaga. “Yes, that’s what we’re going to do.” She sounded about as least convincing as one possibly could. Balaga stared at her, frowning a little, then looked at the rug in what Natasha was certain were the most terrifying moments of her life. He seemed confused...but then quickly grinned again, clapping his hands together once in a gesture of finality.

“Alright! Then we’re off!”

Natasha let out a breath she had not even known she had been holding. She’d thought she was going to have a heart attack. As she and Mary clambered into the troika with the rug, Mary shot her a big grin, the likes of which Natasha had never thought she would see from her. “Make sure you hold on,” she said, “he goes very fast!”

This was the understatement of the century. Natasha, having taken Mary’s words a bit lightly, nearly flew out of the troika as Balaga took off. Mary laughed, a sound nearly carried away completely by the wind. “I told you! Now make sure the rug stays!” Natasha put one arm around the rug and used the other to hold onto the side of the troika for dear life. Mary did the same on the other side. Then the two of them started laughing. Natasha couldn’t quite put a finger on why, but they laughed, and whooped, and Balaga joined them, and so the three of them were a raucous and joyful bunch in early hours of the morning. For the first time that night, Natasha was very happy, and she nearly forgot why she was even here in the first place. She found herself enamored by the change Mary seemed to have gone under, from the stiff and uncommunicative statue Natasha had encountered the other day to this radiant, joyous girl. _Oh, if only I were meeting her for the first time right now!_ But then they took a sharp turn, and Mary leaned into Natasha, and she was so warm and comforting beside her that Natasha realized they _were_ meeting for the first time. What she was seeing now was the real Mary, not what she had met in the Bolkonsky home, and the real Mary was a friend to her.

They arrived at the last road before the Volga in what felt like no time at all: Balaga really was very fast. Mary and Natasha clambered back out of the troika with the rug in tow, and maneuvered it the ten minute walk to the riverbank. Their trek was much more solemn than the troika ride had been; the sun was starting to rise, and to Natasha it seemed far too beautiful for what they were about to do. She and Mary stood on the bank, holding Anatole between them, and they stood there for what felt like a long time until Mary turned to Natasha. There was a look on her face that Natasha could not define. “Are you ready?” She said, and Natasha nodded. They did not have the guts to dump him in, as Balaga had suggested. Instead, they slowly bent at the knees in unison, careful not to drop him, and gently placed him into the freezing cold water. With a push from Mary, he drifted off, away from them and off to...well, where? The Caspian Sea, Natasha thought, but she was uncertain. She had expected to cry again, but found her eyes dry. It was an oddly fitting send off for him, she thought; the right mix of regal and elegant with drunk-in-a-gutter ignobility. Natasha and Mary sat on the bank, the former taking her slippers off to dip her feet in the current of the Volga, and did not speak until they could no longer see Anatole.

“What a shame,” Mary finally said, her voice rough from lack of use. She turned to Natasha as she continued. “It was a lovely rug, really.”  

This made Natasha laugh, loudly and obnoxiously like a young boy; she quite disliked herself for it, but she laughed anyway. Mary realized what she had said and put a hand to her mouth, embarrassed. “Oh, goodness, I’m sorry! I must sound so insensitive. I really didn’t mean it like that!”

“It is alright,” Natasha said through her laughter with some difficulty. It faded, and with it the energy of their conversation left, drifting down the Volga much like everything else. They were quiet for a long while until Mary spoke again. “

You loved him, right?”

This threw Natasha for a bit of a loop. If anyone else had asked, in any other circumstances, she would have said yes without thinking. But now she was not so sure. She didn’t answer, and Mary probed further. “Did he love you?”

“I don’t know,” Natasha finally said, letting out a heavy sigh. “I thought I loved him. But…” She trailed off.

“But he tried to have you, like you said earlier.” Mary provided, and Natasha nodded. Mary seemed to think about that for a moment, staring ahead before returning her gaze to Natasha. “That means...That means that he did not love you, I would think.”

“Oh.” Natasha thought about this for a while, frowning.

Watching Mary’s profile as she sat on the bank of the river, the sun coming up behind her, Natasha was grasped by the urge to ask her something, to learn something about her that she had not learned before. It only felt right. She needed some new memory, some new knowledge to associate this night with in her head. She had seen a new side of Mary, and now needed something new to know. But what? Natasha racked her brain for a question, not once taking her eyes off of her companion. She found something; but still she hesitated. It was a question she both felt she already knew the answer to, and at the same time could never truly _know_ without asking outright. The politely socialized part of her mind hesitated, tried to find a way to ask it right, but her mouth moved faster. “Mary?” She piped up, and the woman beside her turned silently. “Are you--Are you an invert?”

This seemed to strike Mary as a never before asked question, and Natasha regretted it as soon as she saw the widening of her companion’s eyes. “What makes you think that?” Mary asked back, neutralizing the initial question. Natasha hurried to defend herself.

“I mean, it’s just that, well, you are older than me and yet you have no betrothed--” _And when I hugged you earlier tonight, you flinched, as though you were doing a bitter wrong_ , Natasha thought to herself, but did not say. “When I visited your home yesterday morning, I did not think much of it. But now I know that you are kind, and pleasant, and so I did not understand.”

“I see.” This was all Mary said for a moment, shifting in place awkwardly. She took a deep breath before finally answering. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“How did you know?” Natasha asked the follow up almost too rapid-fire for her sane mind to comprehend; it seemed the right thing to say, and was something she wanted the answer to (though she did not quite understand why). This took Mary a moment to think about, then she smiled good-naturedly at Natasha with tired eyes. “That is a bit of a story.”

“I want to hear it.”

Natasha scooted closer like a child hearing a lullaby. Mary took a deep, almost shuddering breath, and began. “I was betrothed, once. His name was Nikolai. I was very young, younger than you, and I thought that I was madly in love with him. If he had asked me for the moon, I would have died trying to get it for him. He loved me, too, though perhaps not as profoundly. All was very well and good, and we were to be married, until he wanted to...to have me, as you would put it. Not by force; he was very kind and did not hurt me. Kissing him was fine. Nice, even. But as soon as we went further than that, I was consumed by the feeling that something was terribly, terribly wrong. It was like a pit inside of my stomach. I felt that I was making a dire mistake. And so I told him this, and he understood, though I knew it made him sad. We broke our engagement off, and he faded from my life over the years. At times I thought that I had been selfish, that the way I felt was no more important than the love he held for me...but then I realized something.

“I realized that being happy is one of the most important things you can be. What’s the point of living if you are unsatisfied? Why go out, why make friends, why love if doing so brings you no joy? And so I was sad to be alone, then, but I knew that in the long run I would be happy.” Mary finished her story with a long sigh outwards, before turning to Natasha with a grin. “And then not long after that, I met a fish merchant who had the most beautiful daughter--! But that’s not as important.” Natasha did not know what to say. She was in a sort of awe. It sounded as if Mary had opened up Natasha’s head and taken out her thoughts to read them in her own voice. She was almost scared by it. She could tell Mary knew how she was feeling, because the other woman gazed at her with kind and softened eyes. “Does any of that sound familiar?” There was a bit of a smirk in Mary’s voice. Natasha did not answer straight away. She thought for a moment, before asking another question.

“Are you happy, Mary?”

As Mary formulated an answer, her mood seemed to somber a little bit. “Life is hard sometimes. I know that I will never marry. And I know that my father will forever be disappointed in that, and, consequently, in me. But he will die soon. And I will die, one day, and I would rather do that knowing I was always my most genuine self...well, as much of that as possible.” Mary closed her eyes and let out a low hum, turning towards the Volga. “But if you want an answer? Right now, in this moment, I am very happy.”

Natasha was happy, too. She had undergone such a range of emotions over the course of the night, complicated and hard to understand, but that fact was simple and pleasant. She was content, she was relieved, and above all, she was content.  Natasha and Mary got back up, walking back to the troika where Balaga sat patiently. Natasha felt a twinge of guilt for having made him wait. “Have a nice little heart-to-heart there?” He joked, though it was good natured and warm. Natasha decided she liked this man. She and Mary gave a polite giggle, then they were in the troika and headed back into Moscow. This half of the trip was much more subdued and the first; Natasha could not stop looking over at Mary, captivated by what she had learned. Her mind raced with many possibilities. She had once thought Mary to be plain and boring, but, upon closer examination, found that she had the most beautiful eyes Natasha had ever seen. Her heart skipped an unfamiliar and unexpected beat.

They arrived at Natasha’s destination first, and she was pleased to discover she had beaten Marya and Sonya home. Natasha looked back at Mary as she got out of the troika, feeling an itch to do something, anything at all to signify that something had changed between them. She settled for leaning in and kissing Mary lightly on the cheek, before skipping off towards the front door. Natasha thought that perhaps, if she were a different person, or it were a different day, she might have kissed her on the lips, out of pity or affection or possibly both. Still, she relished in the sight of Mary’s blushing face as the troika tore off at its manic pace. Natasha meandered back up the stairs and to her room, feeling as though she had just awakened from a long and strange dream. She stared for a while at the empty space on the floor where the rug once as, the emptiness that would forever signify what had happened, that it was not a dream and it was real. The empty expanse of hardwood meant that Anatole was gone, that he would no longer be part of her life nor anyone else’s. Natasha wanted this thought to distress her, but it instead sat awkwardly on the top of her mind like a precariously balanced plate. She meant to go to sleep, but her mind broiled with a storm of emotions. Sitting at her writing desk and reaching for the half-empty inkpot, she grabbed a sheet of paper and began to write, Mary’s words playing over and over inside her skull.

_Dear Princess Mary,_

_What you said to me this morning has caused me to wonder something about myself..._


End file.
